


Dark Water

by flecksofpoppy



Series: Poppy's Adventures in Night Ficcing [33]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon - Manga, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: Jean talks.And talks.And talks, regardless of how many years pass.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Facing the Timeless Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505466) by [missazrael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael). 



> This fic references current canon events up to the last chapter, so spoiler warning if you're not up to date!
> 
> Thank you to bara-dads on tumblr for this prompt after my open request for prompts! :D "Jearmin - People give themselves to you, in their talking, and in other ways, if you are quiet and patient and let them."

Jean talks.

And talks.

And talks, regardless of how many years pass. 

It’s not always brash, like when you were cadets. Sometimes, it makes sense—he says things that need to be said, that no one else will say. Sometimes, it’s gibberish—half-hearted declarations rooted in nothing other than youthful outrage. 

Sometimes, it’s in his dreams—a fact you’ve come to terms with since you started sleeping with him—and he doesn’t talk, so much as argue. He’s angry, face pressed into the pillow opposite your own, scowling and murmuring, “did you die for this,” and “how many nosebleeds until you’re dead,” and then, “how many years until you’re dead?”

It’s not very often he says the last one, his voice breaking with it, searching for you suddenly with his elegant hands and rough breathing.

“Armin?” he grunts, eyes opening blearily. 

You smile in those moments, grabbing his hand and nodding, pulling him close.

“How many years?” he repeats, and now, his voice is raw.

“About seven, I think,” you reply as gently as you can, but in these moments, Jean doesn’t crave gentleness. In fact, he rarely does; he only wants the truth.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, burying himself under your chin. You stroke his hair, let him talk a little before he falls back asleep, clinging to you.

*

The first time you ever saw Jean cry was after Marco’s death.

The first time he sees you cry— _really_ cry—is after Eren’s.

“I knew it was going to happen.” Your voice sounds like a brook bubbling over rocks, strange and foreign at how thick and deep it sounds. “I knew.”

Jean doesn’t know what to do, that much is obvious. He’s standing nearby, eyes concerned, hair grown a bit longer, almost startlingly masculine at 23.

You’ve noticed, but not as much as other people. Not much at all, since Eren had started to die (right on cue), and now, has died, as of eight this morning.

“It’s irrational to be this upset when I knew what to expect,” you say, straightening and trying to make sense of the sky and the birds and the fact that you’re standing on a beach with your forehead pressed against a dead tree trunk, bleached by salt and sun. 

You try to make sense of how you don’t want to look at the sea for once and how the tears dripping down your cheeks belong to a body of dark water called Shiganshina. “I knew.”

“I knew, too. But that doesn’t _help_ ,” Jean’s voice is hollow, but he’s not crying; not yet.

You wait for him to speak, because he always speaks. 

“This isn’t right,” he says, his voice finally breaking. “None of it.”

“Nothing is right,” you reply, shaking your head in frustration and letting the rough dry bark scratch your cheek. “That’s what we do—make nothing right, make no amends.”

“Humankind is cruel.”

You’re not expecting a hand to grab yours, for Jean to shuck off his boots and nimbly unbuckle his gear, tug you toward the vast ocean.

You know now that this is an island.

You know now that Eren’s father and his first wife were murdered with a syringe to the back of the head, pushed off this very spot.

You know that you could drown in the ocean as easily as a person can drown in sorrow.

But you don’t know what Jean is doing. 

“You want to give up?” he asks, tugging your hand roughly. “Fine. Take off your clothes and let’s keep walking.”

You can barely keep up as Jean falters in the unfamiliar sand—the only people who have been brave enough to walk on the beach so far are you and Levi, and you didn’t look at each other when you cross uncertain paths—but he bravely struggles toward the water.

“Walking where?” you choke out.

“You want to die? Let’s go!” he yells, dropping your hand and turning to face you with a belligerent stare, eyes bright with tears. “You’re going to die, anyway,” he babbles, shaking his head and letting a few track down his cheeks. “If you want to do it sooner, I won’t blame you.”

You just shake your head, and then you pull him close, uncompromising in your embrace as you hold onto one of the most precious things you have left in this new world, more brutal than you ever conceived of.

“I don’t,” you reply. He just shakes his head, but doesn’t try to pull away. “You can cry about him,” you say, your own voice thick again.

And so, you and Jean cry on the beach for Eren Jaeger, both so loud that the gulls crying across the open water are drowned out.

*

You have a dream about fishing from the canals in Shiganshina, your grandfather telling you that there were no fish in such dead waters. It was all Eren’s idea, after all—to try and find life in stagnant rivers—but Eren is gone now.

After such a dream, you expect to wake up to something poetic that matches the strange otherworldly feeling of departure; instead, you wake up to Jean’s drool on your shirt, him talking again in the night. But this time, he’s talking to you, and he’s awake.

“You okay?” he sighs, pulling you close, the stubble of his chin grazing your bare shoulder.

“I had another dream.”

“Dreams are bullshit,” he grunts, rubbing deft fingers through your hair that you’ve kept long. “What matters is now.”

“I’m still here,” you reply, pulling the blankets up over both of you. He kisses you, soft, unlike his words, and strokes his fingertips lightly across your skin.

You listen to Jean’s breathing as it evens out again; listen for as long as you can before falling asleep, too.


End file.
